The Country Cottage
Well, here we are, February… sighed Agnes Whitmore. February again
So what? asked Timothy Hughes, stirring his hot tea with a thin slice of lemon floating on top, watching his mother-in-law over the rim of his mug. Springs just around the corner, and yet you sigh as though the worlds ended!
For you its spring, Tim, but for me its that blasted seed starting againlittle wisps poking up in mugs, will they sprout, wont they sprout; too little sunlight, too much water, bad seeds, and all the rest. Oh Agnes looked at her son-in-law as though he were hopelessly dim-witted, a lost cause despite his standing as a professor, and waved a hand as if to say, her life was simply a tragic waste. And all because of that cursed country cottage, inherited from her mother, in a place no one ever heard of. Shed rather it burnt down, or a meteorite struck, or the council seized it to build the most important bypass in England!
Er Timothy again did his best to look bewildered. It was almost as if he enjoyed pushing his in-laws buttons, driving her to distraction with the daftest questions. Hopeless, what more can be said! His wife, Lucy, had once said Tim had suffered one too many knocks to the head in his youth, and that, she reckoned, explained his complete lack of understanding of her mothers yearly woes.
Tim, youre a professor, a fount of knowledge, yet you sit and sip your tea like some ordinary Joe! What do you mean, Er?! And stop slurping it so, take tiny sips! Did I not put out jam? For you! She nudged a glass bowl towards him. Raspberry, your favourite, every berry picked by theseAgnes stretched her ageing, freckled hands forwardby these hands, bramble-scratched, slaving away at that wretched cottage, and youre not even eating!
I am, I am! Look, a whole spoonful! Delicious, nutritious! My soul sings! Hear that, Agnes, my soul is bursting into song, better than your Tom Jones! Timothy grinned with pleasure, scooping up more jam. Agnes shuddered. They were all out to get her, every last one, she was sure! Tim played the country fool on purpose, Lucy always defended him for spite. And what did she ever see in him? Not even remotely good-lookingno one would wish such a son-in-law on their worst enemy! And Lucy knew it, but dashed off and married him all the same, as if to spite her mother. Of course she did!
Oh, Agnes Whitmore, youre a treasure, a ray of sunshinehere, let me kiss you! Timothy leaned towards his mother-in-law, lips sticky from jam, giggling mischievously. The woman pulled away with revulsion, but then seemed to relent and offered her cheek.
Tim pecked her awkwardly, like a clueless calf, honest to goodness! Agnes smirked to herself: the raspberries had turned out splendidly, a real treat, and she really was a marvel.
The slam of the front door sent Agnes bolt upright, face set grim again.
See? Its almost midnight and your wife is only just home, she complained to Timothy, who, still dozy from the warmth of the kitchen, tea, lemon, and raspberry aroma, merely beamed, squinting like a cat whos had too much cream.
Oh, dont worry! I sent her home with my driver. Nicks a good lad, wouldnt risk a hair on Lucys head, respects her greatly, he said, waving toward his wifes face peeking through the doorway. She winked back at him, then threw the door wide, drank in the scent of jam, and rushed to embrace her mother. Lucys cheeks were rosy from the cold, her dimples even reddershed spent the day with a friend, a lovely afternoon, and now, home to Mum and Tim
Mum, whats all this fuss? Are you cross again? Ive bought all the seeds you asked for, every variety, exactly as you said, Lucy plopped herself at the table, reached for the jam, and heaped a generous, syrup-dripping spoonful. Evening, Tim.
Tim nodded, admiring his winter-pinked wife, shot a wary glance at his mother-in-law, and rolled his eyes.
Yes, yes, of course! Agnes began her usual lament. I needed them, but neither of you careno! Lawns and garden pots and whats the word, Tim?
Petunias. We want petunias, Timothy interjected, raising his finger. Lucy! Give your husband his vitamins back! Im poorly, see, coughing He gave a mighty fake cough. See! Put the pot back!
Lucy stuck her tongue out and clutched the jam even tighter.
Lucy and Timothy made a handsome couple, even somewhat alike, though a good few years separated themTim was nine years older. She always felt like a girl beside him, Tim ever the guardian and teacher. He never admitted how much he feared one day shed see him as old, worry she might run off with someone younger and flashier. There were plenty of blokes like that about, and Lucy was passionate, loved a bit of romance, always had actors and singers around her. Tim dreaded the very thoughthed simply wither!
What are you two squabbling over? There are still five jars in the cupboard, and another ten of strawberry. Open them all if you like! Agnes threw her hands up. But when picking those berries, when its time to squeeze and strain, picking every last one without a bug or leaf and making sure nones overripewhere are you? Ones always at his college, the others at the river or under a blanket. Just me, crawling through the brambles, hands torn to bits
Youre our breadwinner, mum, our hero, always looking after us! Lucy hugged her mother. And we love you, we do! Dont grumble, please. Marina Thompson sends her regardsremember her? Studied with me, dark hair?
Oh, stop it with your Marina! Sticky hands, sticky lips, and look, now the cloths a mess. Enough, leave me be. I need to check these Agnes swept away to count seed packets. Lucy! How many did I ask for? And how many did you buy? Not enough, you see! Ive had enough, honestly! You plant them yourselves! Do it all yourselves!
She grumbled, rustled packages in the larder, while Timothy glanced at his wife sombrely.
Do you think we should just sell the cottage? I mean, is this worth ither moaning year after year? Its pure torture for all of us. She gets no joy from this lother greenhouse, her vegetable bedsshe curses it all, every last twig! he whispered.
I dont know Lucy mused. Would be a pity But what about the attic, the bikes, the pond, the birdhouses? Oh, dont mind hershe complains like this every winter. Its tradition, just her way of gearing up for spring. Probably has a headache or aching joints. She means well.
I cant ignore it. Here I am, eating her jam, and she reminds me she picked every berry, just as with the pickles at Christmas, reminding us she slaved over every jar
And no one ever No, not a finger lifted Lucy finished his thought. True enough. So, dont let her plant a thing! Weve talked for ages about letting the grass just grow wild. Youll mow it, Ill fetch your scythe from the shed, dress you like an old paintingbelted shirt, homespun trousers, boots, the lot! Oh, Tim Lucy stood, walked over, and wrapped her arms around her husbands neck. Want more tea? Its nice and cosy tonight, isnt it?
Her husband gave an odd little shrugno more teabut kept up the complaining:
And lets tear down that wretched greenhouse, blocking the view. Ill put in a fountain instead. Actually, whats the point? The whole summer, tied to the placeroses and cabbages struggling, slugs eating the potatoes, aphids ruining the peonies. Always running round, never at peace. And the wateringdont get me started! The flies, the gnats, your mother wont ever let us leave until alls watered. Well, Im through with it!
Lucys face fell. But how could she? All her childhood was thereshe lived with her granny, played in the sand and among the chickens, the old gander, and their dog, Barky There was always a cat under the step that Grandma fed with milk. Granny had done all the work while Lucys parents worked in the city and only visited on weekends. Lucy never resented them; there was always plenty to dofishing in the pond with Grandpa, planting peppers and pumpkins. They once even grew a watermelon
Grandma passed, then Grandpa soon after, pining for his wife, no doubt The cottage passed to Lucys mother. Agnes had stopped working, living quite comfortably on her late husbands generous pension. She started bringing Lucy out from school each May, spending summers and half of September in the country. At first, she had no interest in gardening. Currants grewso what? Lucy nibbled berries off the bushesfull of vitamins, so thats fine. Apples fell, wormy or not. Let them rot. But whitewashing apple trunks or weeding the currant bushes? Not her job. Then, when the firm where Lucys father worked folded, money grew tight, and Lucy still needed to be fed, Agnes set her jaw and got stuck in. Seedlings? Done. Roses, peonies, dahlias to sell in bigger town bouquets? Sure! What did it matter if shed become a flower-seller? She wore it as a badgea mysterious woman in lace, offering the choicest bouquets!
Lucy was always nearby, yet never really caught the gardening bug. She ran with other village kids and knew every hidden corner of the old orchard.
Within two years, Agnes was an absolute countrywoman, bustling about in the dark English loam, crawling on her knees, shovelling compost and horse manure (she swore by it!), growing seven rows of strawberries, every berry plump. Her friends drove out from town to ogle the garden, sitting in wicker chairs under old apple trees, feasting on just-picked strawberries. Agnes went all out, tracking down rare seeds, growing cucumbers, tomatoes, marrows, and pattypans. Lucys father, Boris, built the greenhouse to his wifes design, with windows that opened and a little thermometer by the wall. The greenhouse beds were laid out scientifically, copying what shed seen at Kew Gardens. Everything grew like magicthe neighbours said she had a lucky hand, it was all nothing to her! Talent and dogged work. And at the holiday table, there was always something to boast about, always a feast.
And the pickled mushrooms she put up! Goodness! Timothy had never tasted better anywhere in England.
Agnes would set off at dawn for the woods, foraging in secret spots, returning with full baskets; sometimes shed drag Lucy out too, just to bring back more. Agnes was obsessed with her crops and mushroom gathering. After cleaning, boiling, and working her magic, shed turn out twenty-five jars in a day, enough to last winter. They always had a house full of guests at Christmas. Boris had installed a whole new rack for coats; otherwise, the corridor would overflow. Everyone wanted a taste of Agness preserves, and shed beam proudly, rosy-cheeked and nestled next to her husband.
How could they just give it all away now? Agnes complained louder each yearthats what had worn Timothy down. It started after Boris died. At first, she managed, but now shed gone right downhill
And Ive got a buyer, alreadyMr. Chandler, a colleague of mine, you remember? Up to his waist in the river at our wedding, drunk as a lord? Lucy shrugged. Hes always asking if well sell, and I say no, the land feeds us. He says hell pay well. What do you think? Sell up, buy a house by the sea, spend every summer swimming? Timothy set his jam asideit suddenly tasted too tart. It would do your mum good, too, swimming every day, all that sea air. Eh?
Lucy just shrugged again. The seaside sounded nice, but what about the carp and the old willow trailing its branches to the water, as Grandpa said? What about her favourite bedroom, the creaky floorboards, the wood-burning stove How could she bear to lose it all?
That evening, they decided nothing. Life picked up pace, Timothy got swamped with dissertations, conferences, and symposiums. Lucy ran the local community centre, always planning and busy.
Meanwhile, Agnes still raised the roof most nights:
Who left the windows open?! Youll ruin all the seedlings! Look at the cucumberthe poor things drooped, its finished now! Ill have to start all over
And the week after:
Who shut the curtains? Dont you realise the seedlings need sunlight? But no, no one will care for the pots! All left to me, once again! Tim, Im not made of steel! Understand?!
She would turn to Timothy, chin trembling and eyes wet already. She pitied the seedlings being ruined, pitied herself, pitied everything.
Timothy would nod, apologise, open curtains, close windows, water the pots, sighing at the thoughtevery windowsill, even in his own study, now crammed with sprouts. This year, ten times as many plugs as before, as if Agnes wanted to break everyone with exhaustion
Soon enough, its time to head to the cottage, packing the precious plants. But they dont fit! Timothy tries every way with baskets and boxes, but its no use.
Oh, of course! Theres always room in the boot for your rubbish, but my hard work? Thats all worthless! Agnes stews, fussing and blowing on limp cucumbers, scrawny courgette leaves, or fat marigolds. I dont want any of this! Just throw it all out! Ill go to a spa with Ruth Parker, I will! But, somehow, she stuffed herself and her darlings into Timothys battered Ford, tucking her legs under, praying not to damage a pepper plantthe most fragile, after all! And Tims all awkward at the wheel, the cars stuffy, a fly keeps bumping the glass, her backs aching, and the geraniums left behind on the kitchen table
Cleaning the house, clearing last years leaves, uncovering the cosseted rose busheseverything this year is a trial. Agnes cursed and crawled about in her blue wool tracksuit, Timothy obeyed without a word, Lucy cleaning windows.
Bear with her, Tim, shell settle down soon. She takes after Grannyshe grumbled, too, but as soon as summer truly began, she softened. Wait it out, darling.
Timothy would sigh deeply, and when Agnes wasnt looking, scoop Lucy up and kiss her fiercely, passionately, as though he was still a lad. Lucy would blush, hiding her face in his jumper, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke, cologne, and a hint of petrol. Bliss.
They settled in, the seedlings took pride of place by the sunny window, Agnes even baked a pie to mark the new seasonand promptly started fretting again.
The last straw came with the sudden, irreversible death of three currant bushesthe same ones that always produced the biggest, juiciest, crimson fruit. Agnes treasured them, admired their harvests, but now
Well, thats that! Not another word! Did I ask for a proper fence? Did I? Neither of you got round to ityour students, your meetings, all take priority. I asked for rabbit wire? But you, Lucy, couldnt care less. Well, now I dont care, either. Well just buy jars at the supermarket and eat in cafés. Why not! Ive got limits too, you know! Thats that!
She went on, listing every wrong her children and neighbours ever did, cursing the winter, the rainy spring, and the last years dry autumn, searching for someone to blame. Until Timothy threw the spade aside in a rare outburst, swearing in plain, blunt English:
Right. Thats it! Were selling. Will you sign the papers?
He shot Agnes a stern look.
She squinted icily, bristled, and nodded:
Tomorrow if need be!
And that was that!
The very next day, Mr. Chandler arrived at the plot with his whole clan. Timothy greeted him at the front gate, Lucy nodded a polite hello and joined her mother, who merely gave a curt nod from the doorstep before retreating inside, switching on the telly, feigning distraction.
Well, take a look, Christopher! Heres the vegetable patchwell-fertilised every autumn, greenhouse there with piped water, my mother-in-laws pride and joy
You dont say! She really built it herself? Marvellous women! Quite the feat to put up that lot!
Well, noher husband built it, she drew the plans herselfarchitect, you know, Timothy explained.
Right, lets have a gander! Chandler nodded, craning his slender neck, while his wife, a jolly sort, bustled about with their five children, letting them trample whatever caught their fancy. You said its on mains water? Chandler called. Timothy hurried to confirm, nearly stumbling as they both avoided a flower bed. A cheeky starling, poking its head from the birdhouse, watched one-eyed as the master sold away its old home.
Of courseno scruffy plots here, only the finest! Even some academics about, now and then! Timothy declared loudly. Take ityou wont regret it! Looks like weve all lost patience, time to move on Over here, rosesAgnes knows the varieties, expensive, apparently. Phloxes here. Dont like them myself, but Lucy doesthe bushes are due to split this year. Thatll be your job now! And, well, theres more
He gazed round, showing the wood store, the shed, the little fruit store
Agnes watched through the parted curtain as the troop of visiting children romped all over her plot.
Well, fine then. Others children will play here, and well rest, its not for us anymore. Well raise grandkids in the city! She fumbled with a page torn from her Gardeners Tips calendar. What does it matter, hey! Where do you think youre going?! she suddenly shrieked, making Lucy jump beside her. Cant you see, thats the strawberries! Off the beds, now! Agnes stuck her head out and waved, shooing the children. They looked bemused at this strange aunt in the window, then at their mother, who, delighting in her fifth pregnancy, snoozed in a rocking chair, oblivious to strawberries or gooseberries. If only I could nap hereHope Im not snoring! Mrs Chandler thought as she fanned away gnats.
When the children saw their mother didnt intervene, they merrily stomped across the plants. Agnes charged out to the porch.
Lucy! Do something! What will we preserve for winter? What will we serve at the table? Lucy! she called.
Lucy nodded and invited the kids to the swing
Dont rush, Timothy Hughes, Chandler said, dabbing at his brow as he toured the plot for the umpteenth time. To be honest, none of this matters a jot to me. Im tearing up the lot, clearing it all! All of it, I repeat! Agnes froze, eavesdropping. Well, well keep the house, thats well-built and solid. But the rest as if I cant buy a cucumber at the Co-op? Same for fruitevery old dears flogging punnets. Strawberries, Id rather buy a punnet than break my back picking. Never planned to grow cabbages, either; thats old-hat, Tim, working class! Peppers give me indigestion and your currantsso sour, I remember! Takes a bag of sugar to make palatable. The trees Ill keep, perhaps cut back a few branches, too much shade. The greenhousedemolished. Ill stick a garage along the fenceits too exposed at the moment. And this gazebojunk, to be honest
Timothys face fell, eyebrows rising. The gazebotheyd built just last year, with a concrete base, wooden decking, carved posts, the works Junk? Really?
Agnes, narrowing her eyes, watched as Chandler trampled her raspberry canes to get to the fence, crushing mushroom patches in the process. By the picket fence, thered always been sticky buns. This walking ostrich was stomping them all!
Mum! Can I make a bow from this branch, please? shouted one of the boys from the far end. Mrs Chandler nodded amiably.
The lad tugged at a cherry tree, shaking down unwritten cherries. Agnes opened her mouth to stop this, but then saw Chandler senior pulling a honeysuckle root from the soil.
No place for thiskids play area will go here, perfect for a tidy garden! the buyer announced, rubbing his hands. What else can you show me, Timothy?
But Tim showed nothing more, for Chandler stepped on a tiny roseits very first deep red budone Agnes had imported, years ago. Shed nursed it, worried all winter, and now Chandlers brogue nearly flattened it.
Stop! Off my land! Now! The air seemed to explode. Agnes, small and fiery in her blue tracksuit, charged Chandler, fists aloft. Im not giving you anything! Who do you think you are? Working class, you say? And who raved over my pickled marrows at Tims birthday? You did! Didnt you beg jam from me for your dear mother? And the cucumbersTims gifts from here wowed your whole department! Enjoyed them, didnt you? Not giving any of it away! My currants, my gooseberries, my cherriesmine! Go and trample someone elses lot! She stamped her foot.
Agnes! Timothy tugged her sleeve. Please, be reasonable! You agreedits all too much, isn’t it? Let it go, for your sake!
The starling vanished into its box, stunned.
Dont you grab at me! Ive got nothing to be ashamed of, fighting for whats mine! Agnes ragednormally so gentle, so dignified. Lucy! Open up the greenhouse, its sweltering! Ill handle this!
Off she marched towards Chandler as if she could flatten him to the brim of his cap.
He retreated, calling for his wife and brood, flung open the car door. Mrs Chandler gathered the children, who piled into the back, and with a roar, they were gone.
Agnes Whitmore, proud, determined, locked the gate, wiped her hands on a hanky, and set about replanting the honeysuckle. It hadnt been torn after all. Even the rose was intact, grown a little since morning. All was well.
Meanwhile Timothy, leaning to Chandlers car window, quietly slipped him a twenty.
Brilliant job, Chris, truly! I hope my mother-in-laws done with her rants now. You deserve a part at the National, honestly! And thanks to you as well, Mrs Chandler! She smiled, tired but pleased. All these yours? he asked, pointing at the kids.
Oh, no! Collected from all sorts. Well, it was a laugh, Tim, but dont mind if we caused you any loss. Best be off now. Goodbye, Lucy!
Lucy waved, smiling faintly.
With a cloud of dust, Chandler and his mob were gone, and a triumphant Timothy, arm around his wife, strolled home.
Agnes sat upright at the kitchen table, jotting in her notebook, then looked up as Lucy and Timothy slipped upstairs. Removing her glasses, she said indignantly:
I do not see what all that was about! Why were those people here? Theres work to dosewing seasons starting and youre frittering time away! Lose time now and well never make it up. The cottage is our bread and butterIll perish without it, you know!
But you saidno more, youd had enough, you wanted to stop protested Timothy.
I did. So what? I can say what I like! I worry, thats allworry if well miss the season, wont have enough preserves, or if the dill wont even come up. Just dont mind me, Im all nerves! Thats my nature. She said it as if explaining long division to stubborn children. The kids nodded enthusiastically and tried to sneak upstairs to the bedroomthe very one Lucy hadnt finished cleaningbut Agnes wasnt finished.
And another thing! Ive written out the work plantoday, tomorrow, for each of you. Take them. Im off to chat with the cucumbersthey look a bit peaky, probably all the visitors put them out!
She laid out two long lists.
Lucy sighed, picked them up.
Its all right, Timothy whispered. Lets start with those windows. The bedroom, was it? Come, Ill help.
They slipped away upstairs, and Agnes smiled. Her children might be scatterbrained, but they were good soulsand she had the best country cottage in all of England. There was nowhere else shed rather be. And soon, grandchildren tootheyd need plenty of fresh country air! Yes. Now, time for the cucumber chatlet them just dare to wilt!
That autumn, Agnes carted twenty-eight jars of her cucumbers back from the cottage; tomatoes were fewer, peppers hardly grew, but the mushrooms were splendid. She and Lucy bottled currants endlessly, dried apples, and made enough soup bases to last forever.
Now wait out the winter and then, once moreinto battle for the harvest. Thats how it had to be!
